A path in Wuling leads to deep seclusion,
Where dwell Qin folk with chickens and dogs around.
Their homes by flowing streams, peach blossoms abound.
Peach trees on both sides planted long ago,
When did this single stream begin to flow?
Drooping boughs shed petals in the spring breeze unseen,
Fragrant banks extend to where the mountain's mouth has been.
Year after year in solitude it stays,
Green moss beneath the woods thickens with days.
At times immortal birds come to hold blooms in beak,
Never have worldly people here walked hand in hand, so to speak.
Pitiful, not knowing what name it bears,
You, following its course, pass through many changes and cares.
Old post, ruined bridge, where the flat road ends,
Past crashing rapids, strange rocks, the small creek wends.
Where we meet, moor the boat, climb to view the scene,
Red embankments, green banks appear serene.
I praise your journey to follow the hermits' way,
Making me regret my late years spent in worldly fray.